Tired is Slow Slow is Dead
by Crystal Forest
Summary: *Oneshot* When the outbreak takes place, Miranda is safe in her home in Mississippi for a while, until circumstances force her to leave. This is her journey to Atlanta, Georgia.


**A/N: On last weeks' episode when Abraham told Glenn "Tired is slow, slow is dead," my brain started forming this. It wouldn't leave me alone, and since I've gotten a slight case of writer's block with Turmoil, I decided to go ahead and write this. **

**Disclaimer: Should I give a disclaimer for the title? The words aren't mine, so, to be on the safe side, the story is mine, but I do not own the phrase on which the story is built and entitled.  
Make sense? Kind of? Cool. :P :)**

When this whole thing started, I was confused. Confused and scared.

I barricaded myself in my house, piling furniture against the front and back doors to keep _them _from getting in.

I didn't have much food in the first place, so after the first month, I had nothing except for water from the sinks.

Two days went by, and then eight. By then, I was starving and weak. I had no other choice but to go out and try to get food from one of the nearby homes.

After I checked to make sure there were none of _them_ on the street, I went out and slowly made my way to the house next door.

I knocked, and when no one answered, and I heard nothing, I turned the knob, finding it unlocked. I opened the door slowly and entered.

Inside, it was dim and eerily quiet. I crept through the halls and found the kitchen. I opened the cabinets and checked the refrigerator and freezer, in case there might be something that hadn't spoiled yet.

By each I was sorely disappointed.

Whoever had lived here had packed everything, obviously prepared to not come back.

With a sigh, I left the kitchen. I debated for a moment to look for anything else that I might need, but I decided against it. I didn't need anything else besides food, and it would be wrong to take anything that I didn't.

I left the house and went next door. I knocked three times.

This time I received an answer.

A man came crashing through the window beside me, snarling and growling, dried blood crusted on his face.

A scream caught in my throat as I turned to leap off the porch and run across the yard.

The man, or whatever he was, followed me closely.

At one point, I looked back, just for a moment, to see if I had nearly outrun him, and that moment was all that it took for him to lunge forward and grab my hair.

I gasped and tried to pull away from him and those teeth, snapping so close to the bare skin of my neck.

I sobbed, feeling as if it were over. With a final effort to pull away from that man who had become a cannibalistic monster, I turned toward him and ducked under his arm and around him, quickly enough that his handful of my hair pulled out at the roots.

Tears burning in my eyes I ran around him and to the direction of my house, but to my horror, I found my path blocked by several others, all shambling hurriedly towards me, each one of them snarling, blood crusted on their faces and staining their clothes.

Some of them had gruesome wounds on their arms, necks, shoulders, and other areas of exposed flesh. One of them even had over half of her left arm missing.

I screamed, and with no other thought than that of escape, I turned around and ran down the street, dodging around more of those nightmarish creatures that appeared from around houses, through the windows, and seemingly from nowhere.

Just as my legs were about to give out, I was overjoyed to see a car, its door open. I halted for a moment in disgust and horror when I saw a body, ravaged beyond reanimation, lying on the ground a few feet away.

I jumped in the car and slammed the door shut, twisting the key in the ignition as I was surrounded, blood coated hands pounding on the windows, growls filling my ears.

I gave a cry of relief when the engine started, and I put the car in drive. Tires squealing, I peeled away, speeding down the neighborhood street, only decreasing my speed when those horrible faces disappeared in my rear view mirror.

X*X*X*X*

I drove until I ran out of gas, having been unable to find any gas stations, and I didn't know how to siphon gas from the other vehicles I passed.

The road was deserted, without anyone, or any_thing_, in sight, so I got out hesitantly, dashing over to a truck.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't start, no matter how many times I tried. It seemed this time, I wouldn't have the help of motorized transportation.

I beat the dashboard in frustration.

There weren't any other cars as far as I could see. I would have to go on foot from here until I found another car, or, dare I hope? Other people. Living people, who might be willing to help me.

Until then, I would be at the mercy of those unmerciful _things._

I thought about who they might have been before.

What were their names? Did they have children? Husbands and wives?

It made me sad that no one would ever know, because there was no way they could tell anyone who they are.

I didn't want to end up like that, just another face in the flesh-hungry crowd.

My eye fell on an ink pen in the cup holder. I snatched it up, then opened the glove box and dug around until I found a piece of paper.

After checking to make sure the road, ahead of me and behind, was still clear, I thought for a few moments and then began to write.

_My name is Miranda Jackson.  
__I'm 26 years old. Before this happened and people became whatever they are, I owned a jewelry store, Jackson's Jewelers. It wasn't popular, since not many people knew of it. It was on the outskirts of town.  
__I was born and raised in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. When I turned 21, I moved to Jackson, Mississippi. At this moment I'm in Meridian, Mississippi. I've heard that there is a safe place, called Fort Benning. It's in Atlanta, Georgia, and I've decided that's where I'm going to go.  
__If you're reading this, depending on where I am, that means I didn't make it, but I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to read this. That means that you might have cared to find out who I was before, and that means a lot to me.  
__Stay safe! I wish you the best of luck!  
__Miranda_

I put the note into the back pocket of my jeans, got a crowbar from the truck, and started walking.

I walked for a long time. I didn't have a watch, but judging by the sun's steady descent, I knew it had been at least a couple of hours.

By this time I was exhausted, and it was all I could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

My stomach was growling, and my mouth was dry. I longed for just a bite of food and a drink of water.

I had no other choice but to ignore my hunger and thirst, so I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked ahead, hoping I might possibly see a car or a house.

I saw one of _them _instead.

Fear stilled me, and I watched it as it shuffled along with uneven steps. The slight breeze carried the smell of its rotting flesh to my nostrils.

It hadn't seen me yet, and I knew I had to go quickly, before it did.

Going to the right, into the woods, I stepped over sticks and piles of leaves, trying to make as little noise as possible, even though the walking corpse was at least a mile away.

Eventually, I found myself lost. To me, all of the trees looked the same. Everywhere I turned, all I saw were trees.

With nothing else to do, and no other plan, I went in the direction of the setting sun, in hopes that I would find an end to this seemingly endless forest.

Some time later, I heard a sound that I had long since given up on hearing.

The sound of running water. I ran toward it excitedly.

When I stopped at the edge of a creek, I fell to my knees and plunged my hands into the cool water.

I knew drinking it could be dangerous, but I didn't care. I gulped down several mouthfuls before I paused to take in my surroundings.

Across the creek was a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a shack. It was old and didn't look like anyone was occupying it.

Surrounding the shack were thick bushes, covered in some sort of red berries. Among the bushes, I saw different kinds and colors of wildflowers.

Before taking a closer look, I once more cupped my hands and got another mouthful of water, then I retrieved the crowbar from where I had dropped it on the ground, crossed the creek, and approached the shack.

A look at the bushes told me the berries were raspberries. I picked one and chewed it slowly. It was sweet, so I guessed they must be red raspberries. That they were ripe was a plus, but I would have eaten them anyway.

I peeked through one of the filthy windows, into the dark and dusty interior.

I was looking at what must have been the bedroom slash living room.

There was a bed in the far left corner, a small bedside table next to it. In the far right corner was a tall bookshelf. In the center of the room was a sofa and a coffee table. Directly beneath me, under the window, was another, smaller table. On each table was an oil lamp.

I went to the back of the shack and found another window. Inside this room, a table sat in the middle of it, with one chair pushed against it. Behind the table was a gas stove, and above the stove, a row of cabinets. To the right was an open doorway, leading back to the living room.

Stepping away from the window I walked around the shack until I found the door.

It creaked open, and I cautiously stepped inside, the worn floorboards squeaking and popping underfoot.

I closed the door behind me and crossed the short hallway into the living room.

The bookshelf held nothing interesting. They were all about hunting, which I had never done. I didn't even know how to shoot a gun.

The oil lamps were all empty except for one, but I couldn't find anything to light it with.

All of the kitchen cabinets were bare with the exception of a few pots and a pan.

I was dead on my feet, and with night setting in around me, I closed all of the curtains over the windows, went to the corner of the living room, and, with the crowbar held tightly in my hands, I went to sleep.

X*X*X*X*

The next three days I stayed in that shack, surviving on red raspberries and creek water.

I knew that I needed to leave, find my way back to the road, and get to Fort Benning. I just didn't want to go back out there, where I would have nothing to hide myself from _them._

I waited another three days before I resolved to get moving again.

I had a breakfast of raspberries, and then found a pot and a tea kettle in the kitchen. I filled the pot with berries and the kettle to the brim with water. I pulled a strip of cloth from the bed sheets and put it across my left shoulder, tying it at my right hip, and hanged my crowbar on it.

After I found which direction east and west was, I went north, keeping to the side of the creek.

The sun was at its highest point, noon, when I finally made it out of the woods.

There was an open field, a large pond on the left that was being fed by the creek. On my right was a white, two-story house, and parked beside it, an old green Chevrolet truck.

I stumbled toward it, my sore legs screaming in protest, begging me to stop for a break.

When I reached the porch, I set down the pot and kettle, each now half-empty, climbed the steps, and knocked on the door.

A second later I scolded myself for doing something so stupid. The last time I had knocked on a door should have taught me better.

I heard a growl, and the next thing I knew, a face pressed against the window on the left, fists beating on it, trying to get out.

Keeping my hand on my crowbar and deciding to just forget about spare food, I hurried off the porch and went to the truck.

I should have known the chance of the keys being in the truck somewhere were little to none.

I didn't want to go near the old man, much less venture inside the house, where others could be lurking. But I also didn't want to go on foot again until I found another car, and plus I needed food that would be more filling, thereby lasting longer. There wasn't much sustenance in a handful of raspberries.

With no other choice, I steeled my nerves and went back on the porch. With clenched teeth I went to the window.

The old man's eyes were trained on my every move, his throat emitting an awful snarl.

Holding my breath in anticipation, I broke the lower pane of glass. Immediately, he tried to get his head through, paying no mind to the shards of glass that scratched his face. The sharpest shard that pierced his eye didn't seem to cause him any pain.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice breaking, and drove the straight end of the crowbar into his head.

The growling and snarling ceased, and he became still.

A choked sob escaped my lips. I leaned against the door, tears burning in my eyes. I went to sit on the steps and buried my face in my hands, crying for the old man who had been affected by the sickness that had spread across the country.

I had long since come to the conclusion that the people who died were no longer alive when they again opened their eyes. They were no longer themselves, just bodies being propelled forward by some evil, the need or instinct to feed being their only goal. However, I still felt terrible for what I had done. I felt as if I had ended the man's life, his normal life, with my own hands.

The desire to get to Fort Benning, to safety and shelter, became stronger, so I pulled myself together and again faced the door.

If there were any others inside, all of the noise should have drawn them near, but it was quiet. Just to be safe, I knocked loudly five times. I waited a while, listening closely.

When nothing happened, I turned the knob. Unsurprisingly, it was locked, so I found a window that I would be able to get through and broke the glass. I clambered through carefully and went to have a look around.

I covered my mouth and choked down bile as I passed a body that had been reduced to bones and scraps of a nightgown in the sitting room, the floor bloodstained.

In the kitchen I found an empty milk jug on the counter, which I washed out and filled with water from the sink.

_I'm glad they have well water, _I thought, drinking some of it. It was much cleaner and tasted better than the creek water I had been drinking, which I couldn't complain about. It could have been worse, after all. I could have had no water.

I found enough canned goods to keep me going for a while, and once I found the keys, hanging on a nail by the front door, I gathered up the pillowcase of food, the jug of water, and my pot of berries, and put them in the truck.

I started it, then went back on the porch and to the window, where the corpse's head was still stuck. With a sickening squelch, I tugged the crowbar out of its skull.

X*X*X*X*

I drove nearly nonstop. I had found a garden hose and cut a section from it, then taught myself how to siphon gasoline from other cars so I would be able to keep using the same vehicle, and I wouldn't have to walk long distances until I found another.

Two days after I left the white farmhouse, I ran out of gas. I was lucky to have come to a stop close to a station wagon.

I got out, got the hose from the back of my truck, and started the now-familiar process of siphoning gas from the abandoned car.

I was tired, and I knew I needed rest, but I was only one hundred miles from Atlanta, Georgia, and so I didn't want to stop now.

Coughing and spitting, trying to get the gasoline taste from my mouth, I never heard the shuffled footsteps that approached behind me.

A hand closed around my upper arm.

I gasped and reached for my crowbar, then realised that I had left it in the truck. I pulled away, but not before I felt teeth bite into my arm.

Running to the open door, I jumped inside and drove away, leaving the ghoul behind me. It soon dawned on me that I had left the gas cap and hose near the station wagon in my haste. Frustrated, my arm throbbing and bleeding, I kept going, nothing I could do about it now.

After a while, I began feeling sick. I soon developed a fever, and within the next few hours, I was having to stop to throw up every once in a while.

By the time I crossed into Georgia, my bones felt like glass, and every bump I hit, every time I moved, it caused a horrible pain to go throughout my body.

What hurt most of all was where I had been bitten. It constantly throbbed and burned, as though hot coals that had been taken right out of a fire were being held to my arm.

I glanced down at the gas hand and saw that it was now showing 'empty.' Not too much time later, I was coasting, only still going because of the momentum.

When the truck came to a stop, I got out, taking the crowbar and leaving everything else behind, and proceeded to walk the rest of the way. I knew I wasn't going to make it to Fort Benning, but I was determined to make it as far as possible.

In a daze, I forced my legs to keep moving, tears of pain leaving tracks down my dirty, sweaty face.

A small smile spread over my lips when I approached the sign that proclaimed 'Welcome to Atlanta.'

I paused a moment in front of it, weakly reaching a shaking hand out to touch it, just to make sure it was real and not another hallucination.

My fingertips grazed the warm metal.

Elated that I had made it to Atlanta, I took another painful step, then another. Everything faded out, then turned black.

The last thing I was aware of was the feeling of the hot asphalt against my face.

X*X*X*X*

An unknown time later, I opened my eyes slowly, the dim light of the setting sun turning everything into dark shadows.

I pulled myself up to my feet and started walking, only this time my movements were slow and uncoordinated.

And I was hungry.


End file.
